


World Enough and Time

by SylvanWitch



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Double Penetration, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pegging, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 00:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16943943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: He can still remember what it was like to love them.





	World Enough and Time

Miranda tastes like wine and smells of something both sweet and sharp, which is fitting, given the way her corset cuts into his chest as she rides him, the carriage doing some of the work for them, James just hanging on for dear life.

 

Her head is thrown back, her long neck damp with a faint dew of perspiration, and she is letting out a low, irregular sound every time they hit a bump.

 

If he weren’t trying to hold her on his lap, he might be better able to serve her needs, but he cannot let her go lest she fall.

 

She falls anyway, eventually, over the edge into a held-breath, vise-clamped glory that wrings his own orgasm out of him with a shout he muffles between her sweat-damp breasts.

 

She lets him hold her a moment, long enough to catch her breath, and then climbs off, arranging her stockings and skirts and smoothing her hair so that no one would know what she’d been up to unless they looked very closely.

 

He has a moment to wonder if his seed is trickling down her leg, to wonder if he should climb under those skirts and clean her up.  
  


  
Then they arrive at the house, and the moment has passed.

 

Still, all through the boring afternoon, the endless cups of tea, the snide banter and bald attempts at wit, every time she shifts in her seat, he wonders if she’s still feeling him, sticky and sensitive, and he can hardly wait for the carriage ride home.

 

*****

 

That first time, in the dining room, James is cold everywhere but his lips.  There, where Thomas’ are firm and warm against him, he’s on fire.  When he hesitates, Thomas gives him only enough room to touch his tongue to his lips and taste Thomas there.

 

Then there is nothing at all between them except fire. 

 

He doesn’t remember getting up the servants’ stairs to the second floor, to the massive bed with the dark pilasters and heavy canopy and curtains—these details he notices later—or how his breeches come to be around his ankles.

 

He recalls vividly the heat of Thomas mouth on his cock and the terrible need to shout, which he does, repeatedly, into a pillow, clutching it so fiercely that it bursts.  Feathers float around them like snow.  Thomas laughs, buries his face against James’ thigh, shaking them both with his laughter.

 

James is shaking too, shaking and clutching the sheets and writhing like a whore and begging in a shattered voice.

 

Thomas takes pity on him, finishes him swiftly, with a kind of skill that makes James jealous, later, to realize how he must have learned it. 

 

“Thomas!” he cries, trying to warn him, choking on it as his orgasm rushes through him and he spends down Thomas’ throat.  It seems to take him forever, but Thomas doesn’t murmur, just swallows and then gentles him through the after-effects, his sight gone hazy and shot through with lightning motes.  Thomas kisses the damp head of his cock and then slides up his body for a deep, filthy kiss that shocks James with the taste of himself.

 

The first time Thomas’ hard cock bumps against his belly, he freezes, and Thomas says, “It’s nothing.  Don’t think of it.  Another time.”

 

But James can smell himself on Thomas’ breath, can feel his own sticky, quiescent cock dragging in the hair of Thomas’ belly.  There is no room for pretending in this bed.

 

He spreads his thighs and says, “Please.”  They both know he isn’t begging.  This is the gift he can give that will make them equals.

 

Thomas shakes his head, “You’ve nothing to prove, James.”

 

But he does, now as ever. 

 

“Please, Thomas,” he says, shifting his hips. Thomas is hot and hard against his belly.

 

“Someday, your stubbornness is going to get you killed.”  It should be a warning, but the note of affection makes it sound more like a fond observation.  And anyway, Thomas reaches out to the table beside the bed and unstoppers a vial of oil.

 

It fills the room with a familiar odor, sharp and sweet, and James goes still again, recognizing Miranda’s scent.

 

“Relax,” Thomas soothes, misinterpreting James’ sudden tension. 

 

The first finger feels enormous, too much of an intrusion to possibly allow for anything larger, but Thomas kisses his belly, sucks a nipple into his mouth to rough it with his tongue, and while preoccupied with that sensation, James doesn’t feel the finger slide in further.

 

He does feel it when James crooks that finger, though, brushing against something inside of James that sets his back teeth to trap the sounds that want to come out of him.  He’s just had the best orgasm of his life, but his cock twitches with interest again.

 

“All right, James?” Thomas asks, as if inquiring about the temperature of the tea, even while his finger is doing filthy, wonderful things inside of him.  The contrast is enough to make James shiver with want, suddenly empty where he’d never before known there was a space to fill.

 

The second finger drags a hiss out of him until Thomas rubs his belly and eases it in, sliding up next to the first and twisting another noise out of James, who has already found another pillow against which to stifle his sounds.

 

He doesn’t know how long it takes before Thomas is satisfied with his preparations—he loses all sense of time and most of his reason, stunned into a haze by the way his body responds, by the sense of fullness and rightness, by the pleasure.

 

He’s brought back to a sharper awareness when Thomas slides his fingers out.  James winces at the discomfort and is immediately soothed by Thomas’ weight on him, by his mouth and the words he murmurs that James will carry with him forever in his most secret heart.

 

Then he is being urged onto his belly, up onto his hands and knees, and he has only moments to be aghast at the vulnerability of it when something impossibly huge is nudging at his hole and he holds his breath helplessly until Thomas rests a hand at the nape of his neck, a symbolic touch but one that triggers a kind of submission in him that he never thought possible.

 

He drops his head, blows out a breath, and feels the head of Thomas’ cock breaching him, slow but inexorable.  Thomas is saying, “That’s good, James, you’re so good.  You’re so tight, it’s perfect,” and James is so far away from himself that he startles to feel Thomas thighs against the back of his own and to realize that he’s sheathed inside of him. 

 

He clenches experimentally and Thomas groans, the hand on James’ hip gripping him tighter.

 

Thomas says, “Please,” and James nods, shifts his hips minutely to signal his readiness, and then Thomas is moving inside of him, guiding James with the touch of his hand to spread his knees a little more, raise his arse just a touch.

 

He’s not hard, not even a little now, but when Thomas changes the angle of his careful thrusts, he strikes something that wrings a noise out of James and then does it again, quite deliberately, and again, Thomas’ breath coming harder, the hand on James nape tightening too, and James realizes he’s moaning at every stroke and shuddering, his whole body shaking with the enormity of what’s happening to him, with the annihilating rightness of it, of Thomas’ possession of him.

 

He sucks in a desperate breath, realizing only belatedly that he’s crying, too undone to be ashamed of that weakness.

 

Thomas is chanting his name on every inward thrust— _James, James, James_ —rhythm ragged now as he loses control, and James has his fingers clenched in the sheets, tearing them, saying, “Thomas, Thomas,” desperate for something he cannot name until Thomas lays his weight across James’ back, shifts his grip from his hip to his cock, strokes him twice, and James comes again with a shout that no pillow will muffle, Thomas crying, “James, oh god, James,” and coming too, pulsing inside of James, who can feel every minute movement of Thomas’ cock there.

 

His blood is still roaring in his ears when Thomas leans back, making James shiver for the loss of his weight and heat, and then pulls out of him, easing him through the process with a broad, hot hand on the small of his back.  Already there’s an ache low down, already a burning in his arse, and he should be disgusted by the seed that leaks from him, but he’s only proud of it, only curious at the sharpness of its scent and the way he wants to taste it because it is Thomas’ as he is Thomas’—as everything in his world is Thomas’ now.

 

James Flint has never been womanish, never allowed himself weakness, not even when it was only his own image in the glass sharing the room with him.  Now, wet with another man’s spend, wallowing in the sex-wrecked bed, feeling the scratch of Thomas’ hair where his thighs touch him, knowing that he’s being seen like this—he only wants to roll over and let Thomas have all of him again, do it face to face so there is no hiding his feelings.

 

Thomas breathes his name like a prayer, strokes a reverent hand over the swell of his arse, and then moves to the bed beside James before urging him to turn over so that he can kiss him, a sweet tangling of tongues and teeth that relates better than any words how Thomas feels about him.

 

“I love you,” Thomas says, apparently not satisfied with the unspoken language of their affections.  “I love you, James.”

 

“And I you, Thomas,” he answers at once, unable to offer anything but the truth here where he has been remade into something utterly different from what he’d imagined he might one day become.  He wishes they could stay like this—sex stink, spend, sweat and all—but he knows that such moments are stolen from a greedy world, the world beyond the bedroom door, where servants gossip and the streets themselves will talk.

 

He remembers Miranda only belatedly, as he reaches up to pick a feather out of Thomas’ hair and smells her on them both.

 

As if Thomas has read his thoughts, he says, “She does not mind, my love.  We have an…arrangement.  And anyway, if you’re feeling she’s been done wrong by, we can invite her to join us some time.”

 

James breath freezes in his throat, and then he coughs, his imagination having caught up with Thomas’ words.  It makes a gorgeous picture, the three of them naked and romping in this vast, rich bed.

 

“Yes,” he answers.  “I’d like that.  Only…later?”  He has only just discovered the immensity of this thing they have between them.  He’s not quite ready to share it with another, as dear as Miranda is to him.

 

“Later, love.  We have time.”

 

But so little of it, really, in the end.

 

*****

 

The last time they are all together, they don’t know it will be the last, of course.  They have come home laughing from a play, a comedy of manners in which the innuendo ran to the obvious.

 

Miranda has just said something cutting about the playwright when Thomas stops with his hand on the balustrade and looks from James to his wife to the second floor.  It is as clear an invitation as any word, and James hurries through taking Miranda’s cloak, handing it to the maid, shrugging out of his coat and toeing off his boots.

 

Thomas laughs to see James’ eagerness, and Miranda, too, turns a fond smile on him, though, as always with her, there is a suggestion of the sardonic at one corner of her upturned mouth.

 

They do not even offer the pretense of a nightcap to assuage the sensibilities of the servants, who are well-paid to be silent about what they do and do not “know” of their employers.

 

James often wonders later if it was the blushing girl in the hall who betrayed them.  Later still, he knows better.

 

At that moment, though, his eyes are full of the fine view of Thomas’ arse as he climbs the stairs and his mind is caught on the grace in Miranda’s carriage, the way she holds herself, as if the world must bend to her will or break—and it is all or nothing to her which it chooses.

 

James has learned something of that sensibility from her, learned from Thomas’ gentle touch and Miranda’s razor wit to defend himself from the usual pitfalls of their age—the blindness of custom, the petrifaction of tradition.

 

In the room they’ve made theirs, they undress efficiently, exchanging teasing, greedy glances, comfortably past the point of shyness with one another. 

 

James helps Miranda with her laces, and she returns the favor with his breeches.

 

He and Thomas both assist in removing her garters and stockings; James loves the soft skin of her inner thigh and the lithe strength in her calf muscles as she points her toes to ease his work.

 

Thomas is, as always, breathtaking.  James does not know—doesn’t care—if it’s like this for other men; when he looks upon Thomas, he cannot quite take a full breath.  First, always, comes the wonder.  Then, he’s overtaken by the fire, an all-consuming, burning need to touch, to feel as much of that strength and weight pressed up against him as he can get.

 

But something is different this night.  Usually, Miranda is the first to climb into the bed, and the men turn their focus to her pleasure, sharing her body between them.

 

Tonight, though, there is a signal James does not see, and Thomas holds his hand out to escort James to the bed first, as though he’s a blushing bride.  And he does blush, for the first time in a long while, to realize that they mean to make him the center of their intense attention.

 

Thomas soothes his sudden anxiety with a stroke from his throat to his toes, lingering over the trail of wiry hair that leads to his cock and over the fragile hollow beneath the bone of his ankle.  Miranda, always bolder, leans over him from the bedside to kiss him long and deep and then pulls away to climb up beside him and offer him her breast, which he takes with gratitude—this, at least, is familiar between them.

 

Thomas is a line of heat against James’ flank, a sure hand tracing the muscles of his belly, teasing around but never touching his cock, which is filling as Miranda makes breathless little noises above him. 

 

He opens his eyes when she pulls away from him, grateful to see the flush on her cheeks.  When he turns his head, he sees Thomas, intent smile in his eyes.  Thomas leans down to kiss him and then whispers in his ear, “Relax, love.  This night is for you.” 

 

Then he is shifting, kneeling up on the bed, reaching across James’ body for Miranda, who is likewise kneeling now.  James watches Thomas’ deft fingers sliding between her folds, bites his lip when Miranda cries out and bucks into the touch.  He wants to touch, but somehow he knows that he shouldn’t, that it is not yet his time to join in.

 

Miranda kisses Thomas like she would steal his breath, but it’s her hands and not her mouth that James is watching, her long, wicked fingers sliding between Thomas’ legs, back and back until it’s Thomas’ turn to cry out.

 

The scent of lavender fills the air, sweetly familiar and sharply exciting, and James’ cock responds by growing harder still, an involuntary reaction.

 

He realizes what Miranda’s clever fingers are doing when Thomas spreads his legs to give her more room to work, and understanding crashes over James with a wave of lust powerful enough that he must grab for his cock and tighten his hand around the base.

 

Thomas is too far gone in Miranda’s loving preparations to see James’ state, but Miranda spares him a wicked wink, her pink tongue peeking out between her teeth as she works her husband open.

 

Moments later, Thomas makes a sound, and Miranda withdraws her glistening fingers and turns to him, “Hands and knees, James,” even as he feels Thomas’ urging hand on his side. 

 

James goes where he’s bidden, wondering what they mean to do, when he feels Miranda’s finger circling his pucker.  He drops his head to his crossed arms and raises his arse and is rewarded to feel Thomas’ hands parting his cheeks, feel the hot breath as the only warning before a broad tongue sweeps over him.

 

He keens, shaking with the sudden feeling, and then Miranda has a finger inside of him, seeking, and then a second, scissoring.  It’s fast, but he’s accustomed to it, and when she crooks her fingers, striking the golden spot, his belly goes molten with fire and he cries out again.  He’s so lost in the lightning pleasure he doesn’t notice the third finger until she withdraws her hand altogether.

 

“Almost ready,” she murmurs, and he feels her weight shift from the bed.  He levers his eyes open far enough to see her retrieving a contraption from a nearby drawer, and he watches, throat growing tighter with his need, as she straps the device around her and slicks its hard, curved length with more oil.

 

“What—” he begins, but Thomas soothes him, saying, “Hush, love, we mean to make you feel every inch,” and then he’s being urged up on his knees so that Thomas can arrange himself on his back on the bed, hooking his heels over James’ shoulders.

 

Thomas reaches for his cock, wraps a hand around it, stroking experimentally, and James’ closes his eyes and bites his lip.

 

Without further encouragement, he lines up and bumps Thomas’ opening, hearing Thomas hiss, “Yesssss,” as James slides home.

 

Thomas is hot and tight, clenching around James’ cock, and James has to recite navigational equations to keep from coming right then and there.

 

In his distraction, he doesn’t realize Miranda is behind him until she puts a hand between his shoulder blades and pushes him gently forward, so that he’s folding Thomas practically in half to offer up his own arse, which she strokes lovingly before he feels the nudge of something hard and huge at his own pucker.

 

He moans, thrusting into Thomas mindlessly, as he feels the tip of that hard thing enter him.

 

Miranda laughs, a low, thrilling sound that wraps around his cock like a hand, and then she thrusts, sliding in, and he stutters in his motion, Thomas grunting beneath him as he takes their combined weight while James adjusts to the intrusion.

 

“Alright, love?” Thomas asks, and James nods, prying open his eyes, which had shuttered at the sensation of being so full of something unyielding.

 

Then Miranda begins to circle her hips, her breath hitching with each rotation, and James mimics the motion for Thomas, whose own breath fractures over James’ name.

 

James cannot spare a hand for Thomas, not without crushing him, so Thomas takes himself in hand, stripping himself ruthlessly as James’ hips speed up.

 

Miranda shoves into him hard from behind and says, “God, you’re such slut for it, James, taking it like this,” and James feels her words boiling through him, feels Thomas’ muscles milking him, sees Thomas’ frantic expression and the way his hand blurs in its motion, and he comes, shouting, Miranda relentlessly riding him through it, Thomas writhing below him, striping his own chest with seed.

 

Still, Miranda does not stop, pushing James past the point of pleasure to where pain mingles with it, sparking a new sensation, and then she gives a sharp, high cry and shudders, hips bucking frantically once, twice, Thomas moaning beneath him, James sobbing now, unable to catch his breath, so full of love for them both that he cannot bear it.

 

“Oh, love,” Thomas breathes, touching James’ wet cheek, cupping his face and bringing him down for a lingering kiss to distract him from Miranda’s slow, burning exit from his body.

 

When she’s pulled out, his muscles still spasm, his arse feeling empty, a low ache in his belly telling him he’s been taken as thoroughly as it’s possible to be owned.  
  
  


She falls gracefully onto her side, wooden phallus obscenely slick where it bobs with her breathing.

 

Thomas puts the back of his hand on her breast, and she leans over to kiss him while James at last slides out of him.

 

They arrange him so that James is between them still, Thomas spooned up behind him, a leg between his two, Miranda on her side pressed up against him from the front.  He can feel the dampness between them, sweat and spend, and the air is heavy with the scent of sex.  He realizes, distantly, that he’s shivering uncontrollably now and still crying, silent, hot tears spilling over his lashes, overwhelmed and adrift, their hands on his hips and his breast and neck, their mouths soothing him with words and kisses, until he falls asleep like that, feeling whole and wholly loved, luckier than he has any right to be.

 

He should know better than to tempt fate that way.


End file.
